I spent the evening sipping prosecco and eavesdropping on an Italian couple and their son, a guy my age who is fluent in Cantonese and works in construction here. How long has it been since I have heard Italian? Since my ex and I drove around Sardinia, through its moonscape, but even then it would not be the Italian of this family that orders a whole bottle of rosé with their fish dinner, smoking between courses. Not many Italian placenames come up. They say Dubai a lot. The father figure has his hair combed back, a lion’s mane of grey, and a sweater tied around his neck. Even in mid-October this is not plausible or even acceptable. He answers his phone and in English tells the man to send a bottle of prosecco to whoever is waiting for them over in Central - they will be late. Generosity and accent in full flow, just as the bubbles should be. The bottle is from him - a generic name like Franco - and his wife - a generic name like Sofia. Yet, despite the names, and though they do not look like the kind of family to ride public transport, there are no cabs to be had on our island. Will they ever make it? The waiter asks how they would like their fish. Just do it as you like, they say. The construction-worker son blushes. Their cavalier rubs off on me and I buy two cans of soda water for the walk home.
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